


How would you do it?

by savorycheeks



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Hannibal is a murdersexual, M/M, PWP, Will is getting there, murder talk as dirty talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 09:37:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4955365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savorycheeks/pseuds/savorycheeks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Murder talk turns quickly to dirty talk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How would you do it?

"I still want to kill you." Will takes the glass of wine that Hannibal offers him, sips it. "I dream about it, like a nightly film I can't walk out on."

Hannibal, though clearly not bothered by his admission, gives Will no expressive indication of what he does feel about it. Nonchalantly, he says, "I have rooms in my memory palace devoted to you, to the things I would do to your body. Arrangements and methods." He swirls the liquid in his glass, studying the motion as the wine edges nearer to the rim, and sits next to Will on the sofa, not touching him but only just.

They've been in this house for two blurred months, the well isolated summer home of some acquaintance about whom Hannibal did not elaborate. Will has theories, judgments that spawn unconsciously from observations of the decorating and the few personal items left in the off-season. Will assumes that should the owner return unexpectedly, Hannibal will kill him, and he doesn't need to know considerably more than that. He wonders if the owner is rude, and wonders if it matters, really, to Hannibal or himself. He considers distantly that it ought to bother him, that it likely will, but until the situation arises he can't bring himself to tease out his own moral boundaries.

Hannibal does not meet Will's eyes as he continues, instead gazing into his glass thoughtfully, "I don't often allocate space for hypotheticals and could-have-beens, but for you I can't bear to tear down a single wall; they are each so beautiful. "

Their knees brush as Will leans back, sipping wine and taking in the sight of Hannibal, who is pleased enough, but just this side of pensive. Will, on the other hand, feels the calm of honesty wash over him. "At least you don't hold it against me. I wonder, will one of the rooms ever be so perfect that you bring it forth into the world?"

A smile and a sly glance reward Will's interrogation. "It would be too thorough a disappointment in the translation, I fear. I would much sooner use the inspiration for new pieces." Hannibal is flattering, teasing him like a schoolboy for his crush.

"Kill others how you would like to kill me?" Will shifts so that he faces Hannibal, one knee now jutting lightly into his ribs while the other leg brushes Hannibal's shin.

Hannibal nods in partial agreement. "Not entirely inaccurate. I find you inspiring." Each crime is one I am guilty of, Will thinks.

Light, steady fingers trace Will's jaw and brush over his scars. His cheek is mostly healed, but it still tugs strangely when Will speaks or eats. Hannibal drinks him in, and Will sees the gears working, witnesses pieces of himself being filed away. "...and you, Will? Is there a perfect execution waiting to surface in that mind of yours that would spell my end?"

Will considers the question seriously and realizes its answer as he says, "I don't know." Hannibal has leaned back now, pulling his hand away and encouraging Will to continue. Will's fingers trace the stitching of Hannibal's pant leg. "I want it, but not in the same way I did... like it was a final, inevitable rite. Now the concept is more abstract, like,” Will's eyes lose focus as he thinks, and he looks forward at nothing in particular as he continues, “walking on the moon. It’s technically possible, but it's too far off. To absurd."

A softness creeps into Hannibal’s expression, disarming him. "Most of us will never touch the moon, but its gravity affects our lives every day. It tugs at us, and us at it, and it faces us always." The wine, dark and red as it had been that night, warms in Will's chest. Hannibal meets his eyes, impressing upon Will the weight of his question, "How would you do it, now?"

Will squeezes Hannibal's thigh and does not break eye contact as he says, honestly, "With my hands, always."

Hannibal leans forward, and breathes, inhaling Will before kissing him with force and savoring tenderness. When he pulls away his eyes are still closed and he's listening, Will realizes, to the air in their lungs and the pulse in their veins.

"Many ways to kill me with your hands, Will. What would you do?"

Will drains the last of his wine and puts the glass on the floor. Hannibal follows his lead, abandoning his glass on a side table and leaning back once more, looking to him expectantly.

Will arranges himself so he is facing Hannibal completely now, straddling one leg. His hand rises to Hannibal's throat and lingers, gently. "Strangulation has an intimate satisfaction. I'd be holding you to the end."

There’s a flare in Hannibal’s eyes as Will feels him begin to raise his arms but decide, immediately, to keep them at his side. A tongue darts over his bottom lip and Hannibal says, "as you held me on the cliff."

"Except this time we wouldn't swim to safety, to new lives." Will dips his head and tightens his grip incrementally. He speaks soft and hot into Hannibal's neck, "you would be subsumed by me."

Hannibal bucks his hips as a puff of air escapes his lungs. He regains his composure, and his arms, tense but unmoving, stay at his side. “So is that the final answer? Strangulation is what I have to look forward to, one day?”

Will makes a small noise of consideration, “No.” He scrapes blunt fingernails from Hannibal's jaw to his collarbone. “It’s intimate but..." He punctuates his pause with a quick, teasing nip to Hannibal's bottom lip, still slick where their tongues had been, “...too clean. I want to get inside and see what makes you tick. When I’m finished with you I want to be coated. Covered in you."

At this, the bonds of Hannibal's control snap and he pulls Will into a brutal kiss. He forces his way into Will's mouth and snakes a hand under his shirt. "You would have me in pieces?" He breathes, their lips still brushing.

"I would have them finding pieces of you on me for weeks." Will knows blood under his fingernails, in his throat. He can see, just as clearly, Hannibal, maimed beyond any recognition but his own, laid on a slab and scoured for evidence. "They would process your body, too, and find me everywhere."

Hannibal pulls Will's shirt over his head and ducks to put his mouth over his scarred shoulders. Each wound Hannibal lavishes in attention while his hands roam, following the curve of his spine to his buttocks and pulling him closer, closer.

"It sounds as though there wouldn't be much left of either of us once you're through. Nothing left of you to convict."

"You're right." Will reaches between them and fumbles at the fly of Hannibal's slacks. Hannibal groans when Will grips the erection through his boxers and his head falls back against the cushion when Will strokes, pulling it free. "It does sound like that."

Hannibal's eyes flare again, and he brushes Will's hand aside. He pulls Will tightly into his grip and half-stands, flipping them until Will has his back to the couch and Hannibal crouches over him as a beast. Hannibal opens and tugs off Will's pants roughly, tossing them to the floor. He grips Will's erection tightly and stares down at him, watching as Will squirms in tortured frustration.

Will pants and squeezes his eyes shut. Hannibal encourages him with an utterly malicious lack of movement, and Will performs. "I would want to do it slow, bleed you out just a little at a time," Will says, breathless. Hannibal loosens his grip and begins to stroke, agonizingly slowly, but it's still better, still so much better than stillness. "I would want to, but-- once, I, ah, opened you up, I don't think I could stop, Hannibal, I--" His strokes speed up and he leans in to take Will into his mouth.

Will is clawing at the sofa as Hannibal's head bobs with wet, messy sounds around his cock. One hand wrapped firmly around Will's length, Hannibal's other hand slides between Will's legs, his fingers tracing lightly, then dipping into him, too shallow and slick only with sweat.

Will cries out and Hannibal growls around his dick before lifting his head and reaching for the table alongside the sofa. Hannibal drops his slacks to his knees and applies lube first to his own erection, his chest contracting at the stroke of his own hand. He lubricates his fingers and, placing the bottle on the table, returns to Will and presses his index finger --slowly-- into him, up to the knuckle. Will twists, trying again for movement, but Hannibal holds his hips steady and teases.

Through hitched breaths, Will makes his appeal, "God, I--" The obvious, pleading glint in Will's eyes --only about half an affectation at the moment-- is clearly having an effect on Hannibal, and Will does all he can to push him over, "--I _need_ you to-- God, _move_." Will lets his voice grow hoarse with naked want. "Please."

Hannibal proceeds in earnest now. He pumps his finger and adds another and another until Will is crying out in almost-ecstasy. Finally he pulls his hand away and brings his cock to Will's ass, pausing to look at him, to stroke his chest, to wait.

Will opens his mouth, wordless, and looks up at Hannibal with a silent plea.

The stretch of Hannibal's cock in his ass is harsh and good and for just a moment there is nothing else. Hannibal hoists Will's leg onto his shoulder and fucks him in earnest. He bows, folding both of them nearly in half and takes Will's mouth greedily with his, the thrusts crashing their teeth together clumsily. Hannibal takes Will's erection in hand and strokes it in time with his rhythm. Blasphemy and violence tumble out of Will's mouth with less and less coherency until he is brought to the edge of orgasm and shoved over, semen spilling between Hannibal's fingers and onto both of them.

Both of Hannibal's hands, sticky mess though they are, grip the sides of Will's head and their mouths are crashing together once more as Hannibal thrusts through the waves of his own climax.

They stay, frozen in time, raggedly breathing the same air for a moment before Hannibal slips out. He kisses Will softly, once on each hip bone before standing.

When he returns it is with two small hand-towels and an expression so nakedly, comfortably happy that it stings Will like the sun after time spent in a dark theater.


End file.
